Walk Me Through These Darkest Hours
by unspokendesires
Summary: He whirled, unbalanced and infirm, through the changing paths of his disabled consciousness like the child he could never be, lost in a place he could never escape. Draco Malfoy was spiraling down to an unthinkable demise, and it showed. Dramione
1. Chapter One: And, thus, it snows

**Walk Me Through These Darkest Hours**

Summary:

_He whirled, unbalanced and infirm, through the changing paths of his disabled consciousness; like the child he could never be, lost in a place he could never escape. Draco Malfoy was spiraling down to an unthinkable demise, and it showed. (Dramione)_

Rating:

_T - M_

Plot:

_(Does not follow the last few books)_

Disclaimer:

_I do not own Hairy Potter or any of the other characters from J.K. Rowling's books._

Story

* * *

**Chapter One**

_He had witnessed the unbearable, the unthinkable, and it remained, a permanent recording in his mentality. The shatter of the pleas, the screams, and the silence. The feel of sweaty, warm hands tugging on his shivering pale ones, those foreign words he couldn't understand, the tears that fell in madness from justified fears. . . _

_The screams. . . _

_Those awful screams_

_Unending screams. . . _

_and the trail of blood that followed suit, which sprayed, a rainfall of scarlet remorse, onto his 'pure' features. _

_The laughter he had not joined. _

_The cringe of his paralytic corpse._

_And, _

_The losing of his soul._

"_**M'aidez. . .**__"_

"_**M'aider, je vous mendie, . . . m'aidez**__"_

* * *

The snow fell that same night, yet the soft white pleasantries brought no comfort to the one person who needed, the one person who laid across messy, silken sheets in horror and dismay. He allowed the cold atmosphere strike him, too shaken to care, too pain ridden to cover up, too lost in the horrific daymare to struggle against his throbbing sub-consciousness. 

The window banged harshly against the chilling green decorative wall, as the midnight wind, carrying a collective abundance of wet, transparent particles and sparkling, unblemished snowflakes, whispered soft whispers of the chilling, of the dead. The window made its way back to its counterpart, slightly touching the inner frame before bouncing once, twice, and with an unexpected howl of the wind, reacquainting itself with the familiar wall. The sudden bang, at last, brought the "vegetable" back from his blackened thoughts, back from the cloud of tightening terrors and grasping woes.

"_**M'aidez. . .**__"_

His dulled orbs of sullen gray closed, as he begged the high and mighty for sleep.

"_M'aidez. . ."_

The voices were softer this time, distorted, sweet even, if not for the gloomy after tone.

"_**. .je vous mendie**__,"_

Harsher, of more demand, sending his body into a state of continuous trembles; however, perhaps that was just the small, nippy pounce of several snowflakes on their skyward landing onto the ruddy skin of his distinguished, slopped nose.

He blinked, one shut of his black lashes for every snowflake that landed onto his bare skin. Once, on the chest. Again, on his arm. And another, and another, and another. Again, again, again.

Stop, stop, stop.

His mind screamed for release; an easement from the fusion of ice, which formed an imperceptible outer layer over his bloodless profile; from the haunts of vocal proportions.

Scream. Growing colder. Scream. Colder. Scream. Colder. Colder. Colder. Scream.

It was driving him insane.

With a trembling lip, he rose, stiff, cold, crazed, plastering his baby-skinned fingers to his forehead. His mind jumbled, scrambling and scolding with each forward movement.

"Slower," he inaudibly spoke, barely above the haunting hum of the ongoing breeze.

Laggard, he placed his barren toes to the hard wood floor; they stung as the blisters gave threatening warning to bleed, with nothing but the thin over skin opposing the menace.

His niggling stride to the window caused a series of afflictive grunts; placing his stoned fingers onto the icy frame, he poked his head out. Nothing.

It was a dead paradise, much like himself. It was beautiful, but cold. It was alluring, but shrouded in falsehood. It was a mystery. It was nature's representation of cruelty and hardship, so much like he was such in a fleshed form.

Again, nothing; he shut his steel hued eyes, before cracking them open just barely. Nothing, but a chilling picture of what was to come.

He shut the window, and the cold subsided, to a degree.

He shut the window, and the voices were hushed.


	2. Chapter Two: Denigration of Oneself

**Author's Notes**:

Disclaimer: I do not own anything Harry Potter related; and if I did, I probably would have been thrown into a bonfire by all the 'bloody' Ron x Hermione shippers. It would so be worth it. . .

Anouncements: I hope you (all) enjoy the new installment; I had intended this to be a very long chapter, however, to lessen the confusion, I split it into two seperate chapters, with the next being (if things go as planned) split into parts.

* * *

**Chapter Two**

The glass glazed of winter blue, a barrier of unsightly measures; naught but shadows could be distinguished beyond a studying glance, of towering figurines with misshapen arms, to the black orb of the slowly rising horizon. This was a protected place, where the outdoor noises could not surpass the thickness of the magical hindrance; where the wind could not string; where the wintry hands of malicious arctic pixies could not harm that which lies inside.

Draco Malfoy was protected.

Protected from the physical displeasures, that is; complementary of his mother.

But, the mind is a different matter. It twists, and turns, and, though it's host just might, it never forgets. Always, somewhere, deep inside, beyond the maze which relishes there, looms that which we - humanity - keep under lock and key.

It is only a matter of when and how, during what hour and under whose levering influence, that it makes it's escape.

Draco closed his sunken eyes, fatigue coaxing him, placing its weighty hand over his defectible, sacked visage.

"_Help me,_"

His eyes flew open to the call of one of **THEM**.

A familiar.

'Is that what I'm calling them now,' mused the tired teen, 'Familiars? Have I grown so accustomed and acquainted to my wayward thoughts, that I have marked them by a name?'

Blonde locks fell over gloom-loomed eyes, as a troubled youth shook his head out of his badgered thoughts; he quieted them by concentrating, placing extreme focus on anything, any visible object in the vicinity to take it all away.

The comfy, flushed pillows, perfectly still, perfectly uncontained by an inhabitant, worked for a little while; a brief second or two.

_Vibrant curls bouncing violently with the first spell to be cast. . . _

The first act of murder to be witnessed, - and the most vivid and haunting, - but. . .

Certainly not the last; not, that is, until several nights before.

His glance shifted back to the window, which was webbed with coated frigidity, as silver mixed with pale blue in the mimicking reflection of the clouded mirror. He stared at himself, as the seconds sped by, until he couldn't look at the distorted imitation any longer. And as soon as his eyes moved from the blue silhouette, another picture planted itself to the tattered film playing in his head.

_All at once, the figures chanted, all but one, who 'watched' with shut eyes, the torture which ensued. . . _

_That plea. . . _

_Her plea. . . _

_A muggle's plea, but. . . _

_Still a plea. . . _

"Damn it," he growled.

He pounded his head, gently for the first few bumps, against the chilly window glass, and stopped for a moment, resting motionlessly for the throbbing to cease, before starting up again. The pain made it go away.

Only the pain.

Inflictions were always a part of the young Malfoy's life, less so for self-inflicted acts and stirring more towards emotional straining and physical lessons upon which he was taught respect, and above that, fear. It was not abuse, and for the first half of his life, it was not from irking hatred, either. It was enough to keep a young child in line, enough to keep the 'naughty experimentations,' - and, to lessen any confusion, in the sense of the juvenile level of the phrase; for adult situations, even in the minor sense, were not a familiarity until two years prior to now, - and things of which to test his parent's patience, a one time ordeal per challenge.

This throe in his core, in his gray matter, however, was not placed upon him for respect, it was not due to mindless, mild misbehaving; not for getting less than perfect marks, nor being any let up than what was expected of him.

Guilt. Guilt and a sickening dilemma of the typical 'right' or 'wrong.' Guilt, bewildered morality, and hatred.

'What is left to hate now,' he wondered fruitlessly.

Was it all those who stood there, that first night, as thunder rang of maniacal guffawing, as he fell to his knees, and shouted a scream which did not overpower the echoed crackle of death eaters?

_Blood rained, as the body lifted by levitating forces to the aerial ceiling, where spikes kept the corpse in place, next to those who had been unfortunate enough to be former victims. _

_Red lavished in sickly drops of hellish tears, as the dark dances commenced, all blackened minions deflecting the waterfall from their charcoal robes, while 'purifying' the 'sanctity' of the chamber; the Dark Lord was pleased._

Was it 'he-who-must-not-be-named' that held the ample of his repulsion?

Yes.

. . . And, no.

_Young Master Draco shook, and shook, as he sat in nausea; his fright-gleamed eyes, freshly coated with 'pureblood' tears, stared at his father, who stopped the ritual to piercingly gaze at his ill-active spawn. _

_Draco felt his fealty fall, plummet down the abyss where gram cracker, cream curls would be spared from, in the girl's butchering demise. _

_Senior Malfoy lifted his chin, and continued the ceremony, as if unfazed by his son's actions, - or lack of it._

He hated his father yet, for being such a monster; equally or more so than the loathing he felt for the dictator of the soiled portion of the wizarding world. How could a man which, by his own words, followed only the strictest order, an aristocrat of grace, finesse, and pride stoop to do the absolute low, under the dark 'mercy' of a hypocritical fool? When did the master. . . become the servant?

However much his heart grew cold to the disciples of evil, there was one more, one that he hated most above all else.

Draco looked back to the reflective glass, at the target of his hardened repellency.

**Himself**.


End file.
